The Rocking Horse: A Regency Novella

by Holly Newman

  "And, of course, one must accommodate the ton," the marques said from the doorway, his voice a deep, mocking drawl.

  "Well, naturally."

  "Why?"

  "Why? I'm afraid I don't understand."

  "Jocelyn, the marques is teasing you!" Lady Maybrey said with a laugh.

  "Am I?"

  "Of course you are! Now come and sit down and tell us of Lady Mary. What has the doctor to say?"

  He raised an eyebrow at her sweeping summation of his action but did as she requested. "He believes it to be just a grippe that will pass in a few days if Mary remains in bed and takes the medicine he prescribes." He turned toward Jocelyn. "I'm afraid, Miss Maybrey, that this shall put a damper on your visit. I apologize. We shall try to compensate."

  "Please, there is no need. I find Bayneville so fascinating that I vow I shall be well occupied in exploring your marvelous estate. That is, if I may?"

  "Of course, Miss Maybrey. You are most welcome. And should you desire to ride, I shall arrange a horse for you and one of my grooms to accompany you."

  "That will not be necessary, my lord. I am a city-bred girl and not given to riding. However, I should be grateful of a pony cart if there is one available."

  "Yes, of course. I have one that we take Lady Anne about in."

  "Well, then, perhaps Lady Anne and I could go about together!"

  "As you wish." He looked at her quizzically.

  "Dinner is served, my lord."

  "Ah, about time. I'm certain you ladies must be famished." He rose and offered Lady Maybrey his arm.

  "No, though we thank you for your concern. We are actually accustomed to eating much later," Lady Maybrey answered.

  He nodded wryly. "My mistake. I had forgotten how different London time is kept from the country. We shall begin immediately to accommodate our timetable to that of our London guests."

  Though his words were bland enough, Jocelyn could not help hearing an underscore of mockery. She looked at him curiously as she followed her mother and him out of the room.

  Late rising was another London tradition. When Jocelyn rose the next morning, the sun was almost at its zenith. She stretched and yawned, feeling that she'd compensated for the atrociously early start they'd made from London the previous day. She rose from her bed, rang the bell to summon a servant, found her wrapper, opened the drapes, and settled down in a chair by one of the windows where she could look out across land and buildings.

  Jocelyn reveled in the openness of the scene cast before her. From the windows of her home in London, and from her boarding school in Bath, all she'd ever seen was a city of stone and brick layered in soot, and perennial dirty fog. Here, though the day was cloudy, the landscape was mantled in a dull silver light—a presage to winter pewter when damp winds would pierce the thickest bundling. But there was a beauty to this scene that the city lacked. These late morning clouds resembled a thick down-filled tick, all warm and cozy.

  For all of Bayneville's grandeur, it remained a working estate, not a rich man's toy. White curls of smoke rose from estate buildings, attesting to their usage and utility. She watched two maids carry between them a large wicker basket laden with soiled linens, a young lad in a leather apron sweeping the stone flagway leading to one of the outbuildings, a weather-beaten man in a slouch hat carrying a rake, and an old woman dressed in black carrying a covered basket. Grooms exercised horses, dogs raced across the open ground, and a cat stalked a fat winter wren resting on a low wall. There scarcely could have been more activity in the yard of the busiest London coaching inn.

  The knock of the maid at her door roused her from her absorbed interest. "Come in!"

  Emmie backed into the room bearing a large tray.

  "What's this?"

  "Breakfast, miss."

  "Breakfast! All this!" Jocelyn exclaimed, waving her hand at the array of covered dishes and pots on the tray.

  "Yes, miss. I didn't know what you'd like, so I brought a bit of everything, I did. And as soon as you've eaten, Miss Barnes will be up to dress you, she says."

  "How is Lady Mary this morning?"

  Emmie shook her head. "Poorly, she is. Up most o' the night, I hear, sneezin' and snifflin'. Wouldn't take no laudanum, nor the medicine the doctor left, until my lord wur called. He made her sure enough." She shook her head. "My lord, he wur that determined. Fearful lest he lose his sister as he done his wife. But my Lady Mary, she's sleepin' now, her maid says. And what would ya like, miss? Coffee or hot chocolate?"

  "Hot chocolate," Jocelyn said slowly, her mind engaged in considering all the maid said. Then she recalled herself and smiled at the maid. "And thank you, Emmie. I promise I shall not inconvenience you again in this manner. All this food, and the size of that tray!"

  "No bother, miss. 'Tis a blessed change it is to see visitors again at Bayneville, y'know. And my lord said to let ya sleep late after yur travels yesterday."

  "What time is breakfast normally served, Emmie?"

  "Nine, miss."

  "Nine!" Jocelyn burst out, then laughed. "I see this is another difference with which I shall have to accustom myself between the city and country. At home I seldom rise from my bed before nine. No one does."

  "I've heard tales, miss."

  Jocelyn laughed again. "I'm sure you have. Only don't believe half of it," she said, winking. "Mmm, this chocolate is delicious. I'd been noticing before you arrived how busy the estate is," she said, glancing back out the window.

  Emmie laughed. "We're not busy, miss. 'Tis winter. Not like it be in summer—or at harvest! Lud, miss, it's an anthill, we are. But pardon, miss, I shouldn't be standin' jawin' with ya like this."

  "Why not? I enjoy it. And with Lady Mary ill I must take my enjoyment where I can. Or shall you be missed belowstairs?"

  "No, miss, that I won't be. Until t'other guests arrive, I'm assigned to ya."

  "Splendid! Can you tell me more of the estate? As I shall be left to my own devices until Lady Mary recovers, is there anything I should particularly see?"

  "Oh, yes, miss!" Emmie said, her eyes gleaming. "The boxwood and yew garden. 'Tis most amazin' the shapes the gardeners cut everything. 'Tis artists they are to be sure as well as good gardeners. In their glass gardens—greenhouses they call 'em—they grow flowers and fruit in winter! And visit our chapel, beautiful it be with paintings and carvings—for all of us, my lord says. Reverend and Mrs. Stemple live in the whitewashed cottage just on the far side of the chapel. Happy they'd be to show it to ya, I'm thinking."

  Jocelyn laughed. "I've met few men of the cloth who didn't want to share their church with guests. I think that is an excellent idea. Thank you, Emmie."

  Emmie blushed scarlet, so she busied herself straightening the room in order to hide her pleasure.

  Two hours passed before Jocelyn had an opportunity to leave her room. After Emmie removed the breakfast dishes, Miss Barnes descended upon Jocelyn like the headmistress of a boarding school upon a new midyear student whose parent was a wealthy, influential peer. Not even for London entertainments was Miss Barnes ever so exact and demanding of her mistress. When she learned of Jocelyn's plan to explore the estate, she outfitted her in a red-and-white striped moiré walking dress with a red pelisse trimmed in swans-down and insisted she wear her red kid half boots and gloves.

  Jocelyn's protests that the outfit was not conducive to brisk walking fell upon deaf ears. No lady should ever walk briskly, Miss Barnes told her. Jocelyn wondered why she'd never noticed Miss Barnes's managing manner before. She did not protest, for she was not certain the woman was wrong. A relaxation of standards between city and country could, Jocelyn supposed, have detrimental effects on the impressions of others. That would not do. And she had yet to meet Mrs. Bayne, Charles's mother. She did not know why, but she was not eager to meet Mrs. Bayne. No one ever spoke badly of the woman. Then again, no one ever spoke well, either. Charles's own attitude confused Jocelyn. He rarely came to Bayneville to visit and when he came, he kept his visits br
ief. And she knew he had no intention to remain at Bayneville long past Christmas Day while she was to remain another week. Was his reluctance aimed at his mother or his cousin? After meeting Tarkington she could not see how he could discommode Charles.

  If she were to become engaged to Charles—as everyone supposed would be a result of her visit at Bayneville—then it was best she do nothing that might give her future mother-in-law, or Tarkington as head of the family, a distaste of her. She must remain worthy of Charles; after all, he was destined for great notice and deeds in government, and he was—as her mother mentioned—Tarkington's heir.

  Now, why should that last thought depress her?

  Sedately she descended the house's rear terrace steps to the courtyard that separated the Bayneville outbuildings from the main house. Asking a young groom to point her in the direction of the topiary garden, she sauntered in that direction, her enthusiasm for exploring dimmed by etiquette and society rules. She felt hemmed in and constrained. While she realized her circumstances were no different than she experienced in London, she felt ill at ease. She hoped the cold, brisk December air would blow through her beleaguered mind and bring respite.

  How odd, she mused, her lips curving up into a gentle smile. Even before she arrived at Bayneville she'd been looking for it to offer some medicine, some remedy for her jumbled thoughts.

  The sounds of a child's laughter drew her eyes up. There, not ten feet away, crouched the marques behind an intricately molded bush resembling some exotic bird. She almost spoke, but a quick wave of his hand and conspiratorial wink silenced her. She smiled and audaciously winked in return before continuing forward, this time pretending to examine the bushes in great detail.

  "I'm coming, Papa!" rang out a high, young voice from behind a baby elephant-shaped bush. The voice was followed by the appearance of a little girl with large brown eyes and thick, wavy brown hair falling free of its ribbon and threatening to hide her tiny heart-shaped face. A bonnet hanging by its neck ribbon bounced on her back as she ran.

  She and Jocelyn both stopped and stared at each other, solemnly considering. The little girl popped a thumb in her mouth, her fingers curling around her nose as she stared at Jocelyn. Then the child dropped her hand to her side and smiled. "Hello. What's your name?"

  Jocelyn's smile answered the child's. "Jocelyn Maybrey."

  "I'm Anne," the child said forthrightly. "Have you seen Papa?"

  Jocelyn squatted down by the child, pulling the bonnet back into place and retying its ribbon. "Well, I don't know. I might. What kind of animal is a papa?"

  Gales of childish giggles burst out of the little girl. She fell backward on the ground, rolling from side to side.

  "Oh, please. Mustn't do that or you'll get sick like your aunt Lady Mary." She pulled her up and brushed the loose grass and leaves from her dark blue coat.

  "No, I won't. You're silly."

  "I am? Now, why would you say that?"

  "Papa's not a'mal."

  "He's not! Well, tell me what he looks like, then."

  "He's bigger than that," she said, pointing to the parrot-shaped bird. "And strong, and my papa knows everything! My papa's a mar-kiss!"

  "Well, he certainly sounds like an interesting person. You shall have to introduce us."

  The little girl nodded, her thumb disappearing again into her mouth.

  "So, are you playing hide-and-seek with your papa? Shall we look for him together?"

  The child nodded again, a grin breaking out from around the thumb stuck in her mouth. Shyly she offered her free hand to Jocelyn. Together they circled a bush cut to resemble a giraffe, then Jocelyn led her new companion toward the parrot-shaped bush. She encouraged Lady Anne to go before her around the bush.

  "No. Not here!" Lady Anne declared, then ran back to grab Jocelyn's hand to pull her toward another bush.

  "Not here? But—" She pulled away from the child to peek around the bush herself. There was no marques. In confusion she quickly looked around to see if there were other parrot-shaped bushes about. There were none.

  "Come on!" encouraged Lady Anne, pulling on Jocelyn's skirt.

  "I'm coming," Jocelyn told her, hurrying forward and cursing the stiffness of her skirts that made quick movements feel like running in sand.

  Lady Anne scampered on toward the lion-shaped bush. "Papa! Papa! I got a new friend, Papa! Come see!"

  Jocelyn followed, wondering if the child could get lost. "Lady Anne! Wait for me!"

  Too quickly the child disappeared from view.

  "Lady Anne! Lady Anne!" Jocelyn called, panic seeping into her voice. She lifted her skirts above her ankles to quicken her pace. "Lady Anne!" she called out again as she searched behind pyramids and circled other animals. "Lady Anne!"

  "Are you looking for us?" inquired a low voice colored with laughter.

  Jocelyn whirled about, her breath catching painfully in her chest. Behind her stood Tarkington with Lady Anne in his arms. The little girl had one arm looped around her father's neck, while the other was clamped over her mouth as she tried to stifle her giggles. Jocelyn sagged backward against a bush in relief, only to jerk upright at the feel of sharply cut branches piercing her back.

  "Don't do that!" she admonished, frowning at them. She rubbed a spot on her shoulder that had received a particularly sharp poke from the branches.

  "Do what? Don't you like playing hide-and-seek?" the marques teased, his eyes laughing.

  "I do, but it's not fair to put me in the game when I don't know the playing field," she returned sharply.

  Tarkington laughed, and Jocelyn was again struck by the thought that this was not the gentleman Lady Mary had described. Her fascination grew.

  "Well, my lady," he said, addressing his daughter, "shall we show Miss Maybrey about our garden playground?"

  Lady Anne nodded. She pushed away from her father's shoulder and squirmed. "Down. Down, please."

  When she was on the ground, she trotted off on sturdy little legs to another sculpted bush and turned to wait for the adults to follow.

  "You joined in the game quite readily. For my daughter's sake, I thank you."

  Jocelyn glanced up at Tarkington's suddenly solemn face, surprised by his comment. "Why? I enjoyed myself. At least until Lady Anne disappeared from sight. I was afraid lest she come to harm. I haven't any experience with very young children, you see, so I do not know their capabilities, let alone what I should do or say to them. My experience has been limited to those I've seen in the London parks with their nursemaids and governesses."

  Tarkington looked about to speak, but a shrill "Come on, Papa!" interrupted him.

  "We're coming right now," he called out to her, then offered his arm to Jocelyn. "You surprise me, Miss Maybrey," he said as they approached Lady Anne.

  "In what manner, my lord?"

  "Where are your languid manners? Your ennui?"

  Jocelyn laughed. "I fear it is too cold and brisk out here for that. Much more fitting for hot weather or overly warm and stuffy ballrooms. Besides, I must confess I do not have the constitution to be, nor the appearance for, a hothouse flower."

  "I cannot say regarding your constitution, but I believe you do yourself a disservice regarding your appearance, Miss Maybrey," Tarkington said solemnly, then dropped her arm as thirty pounds of petticoats and little girl hurled themselves into his arms. "What's this, now?"

  "You're too slow, Papa. Let's show the lady—"

  "Miss Maybrey."

  "Miss May-brey," Lady Anne dutifully repeated, drawing out the syllables. "Let's show her the fox and rabbit!"

  "Fox and rabbit?"

  Tarkington laughed. "More sculpted bushes, Miss Maybrey."

  "I can see why the guidebooks say not to miss your topiary garden! What clever people you have!" she exclaimed as she walked around and examined a scene of a rabbit running for a hole in the hedge to escape the fox.

  "Not me. The estate. I merely inherited them. Allow us to show you another. . . ."

>   The next hour was one of the most enjoyable hours Jocelyn thought she'd ever spent. She was enchanted by the vast artistry of the garden, by Lady Anne and her childish delight, and by the marques for his humor, sensitivity, and obvious love for his daughter. The last brought a tight lump in her throat, which she had to swallow hard to dispel, and surreptitiously she wiped away tears of happiness at seeing and appreciating their joy.

  She never imagined a father and daughter could be so close. She had always considered her own father loving, but never in her memory had he ever taken the time to play with her when she was very young, as Tarkington did with his daughter. What astonished her was his enjoyment of his daughter. He did not begrudge her his time or find any question she asked too trivial to be answered. He almost seemed disappointed when she yawned and he realized it was time for her nap. Jocelyn accompanied them back to the house, found herself agreeing to a pony cart outing for the next morning, and parted with them at the staircase that led to the nursery wing. Tarkington even intended to see his daughter to bed!

  Jocelyn wandered toward the front of the house where a footman took her outdoor garments and told her where she could find Lady Tarkington and her mother.

  "Ah, Jocelyn, there you are!" exclaimed Lady Maybrey. "I was told over an hour ago that you went outside. What have you been doing all this time?"

  "Lady Anne and Lord Tarkington graciously gave me a personal tour of the topiary garden. I must say, Mother, it is every bit as wonderful as the guidebook said."

  "It is unusual, isn't it?" Lady Tarkington said. "We have been most fortunate in Edwin, who is in charge of that garden."

  "But how is Lady Mary? The maid, Emmie, said she had a poor night last night."

  "Jocelyn, do not tell me you have been gossiping with servants!" Lady Maybrey exclaimed. She grimaced at her daughter and glanced quickly in Lady Tarkington's direction.